


After School Special

by not_poignant



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Companionable Snark, Enthusiastic Consent, First Time, Highschool AU, M/M, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, Size Kink, Snark, Sorry Not Sorry, Teacher-Student Relationship, shameless references to Severus Snape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-03
Updated: 2013-07-03
Packaged: 2017-12-17 13:27:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/868081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/not_poignant/pseuds/not_poignant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A completely irredeemable, standalone Highschool AU PWP in which Jack and science teacher Mr. Pitchiner ended up planning to get away with the same er... illicit activities in an after school catch up session. Inspired by <a href="http://thatisludicrous.tumblr.com/post/54467342917/for-the-amazing-nina-a-highschool-au-because-the">this wonderful illustration</a> and the few opening lines of dialogue by <a href="http://thatisludicrous.tumblr.com/">thatisludicrous</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After School Special

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thatisludicrous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatisludicrous/gifts).



> Re: The underage warning -> In Australia, the age of consent is 16 years of age, and I am Australian. In this, I imagine Jack as being 17. So, you know, YMMV depending on what country you live in and what you're comfortable reading.
> 
> Finally, it's said in the summary, but you really should [check out the art that prompted this.](http://thatisludicrous.tumblr.com/post/54467342917/for-the-amazing-nina-a-highschool-au-because-the)

Jack couldn’t help the smile that crept over his face when Mr. Pitchiner pressed harder against him. All pretext of figuring out the microscope disappeared, and Jack realised that when Mr. Pitchiner had entered the classroom and closed the door behind him, perhaps Mr. Pitchiner had exactly the same intention for this after school session that Jack did.

‘Mr. Pitchiner?’ Jack said, shifting so that he could look sideways at Mr. Pitchiner, wondering how long he’d have to pretend to care about the glass slide.

‘Yes Mr. Frost?’ Mr. Pitchiner’s hand slid over Jack’s crotch and Jack swallowed hard, almost fumbled the slide. _Well, we both had the same intention then. Jesus, his hand is big. Fuck._

‘Truth is, I already know how to operate a microscope.’

‘Do you now?’

Mr. Pitchiner shifted his hand over Jack’s crotch, and Jack’s smile widened, his eyes drifted back to the microscope. He placed the slide down, or he was going to drop it. The whole length of his back felt warm, he could feel Mr Pitchiner, hard against him. He was big, Jack could tell at least that much. This was going to be an interesting afternoon. If another student walked in, they were going to end up fucked in a way that really didn’t interest him.

‘Do you know how to operate this too?’ Mr. Pitchiner purred as his hand continued to shift over Jack through his pants. Jack stifled a laugh, eyes sinking shut and pushing forwards into that restless palm.

‘Maybe you can do a better job, Mr. Pitchiner. Why don’t you show me?’

‘Oh, I intend to,’ Mr. Pitchiner said, snapping open the fly on his jeans and sliding the zipper down with a practiced ease. Jack’s head tilted back fully as fingers found their way into the warmth between boxers and skin, and he moaned softly when curious fingers became a long-fingered grip around him, when Mr. Pitchiner nuzzled into the side of his neck, hot breath gusting across his skin.

‘Quiet, young Jack, wouldn’t want anyone to hear you now, would we?’

‘I’m pretty sure you’d want them to hear me,’ Jack said, and then choked down a second moan when Mr. Pitchiner’s hand started to move. A second later Mr. Pitchiner shifted and pulled Jack’s pants down, his boxers, and Jack was only wearing his shirt, sweatshirt and sneakers, Mr. Pitchiner grinding against his exposed ass. Jack dropped his head down and nearly took his eye out on the eyepiece of the microscope.

‘Shit,’ Jack hissed, and Mr. Pitchiner laughed.

‘Are you sure you know how to use a microscope? We can go back to that, if you wish.’

‘You’re the worst, Sir,’ Jack ground out, and Mr. Pitchiner made a small, hungry noise behind him. ‘Jesus, you do, don’t you? You have a kink for that. I knew it. You’re straight out of some of the porn I’ve seen, Sir.’

Jack gave an undignified squeak as the hand against him tightened almost to the point of pain. And then Mr. Pitchiner shoved the microscope off the bench and it made an unhealthy sound as it crashed to the floor. Jack gasped when Mr. Pitchiner’s other hand pushed him forward at the small of his back, forced him over the bench, and Jack’s hands shot out, braced himself. To his left he could see the remnants of his homework. Homework he didn’t need help with. They’d both known it. Jack was pretty sure Mr. Pitchiner started eye-fucking him as soon as he’d walked through the door.

‘I have lube in my backpack,’ Jack gasped, and Mr. Pitchiner dug into his lab coat and brought out a tube of the stuff and set it on the bench, next to Jack’s wrist.

‘You know what they say about being prepared,’ Mr. Pitchiner drawled.

‘Yeah, sure. Something about, ‘you’re a pervert, Sir,’ right? That’s right, isn’t it? You, _fuck-_ ’

Mr. Pitchiner’s index finger traced along the seam of his ass and Jack blinked, staring ahead at a large chart of the periodic table with the graffiti ‘Pitchiner Sux Cox’ scrawled across the bottom right-hand corner. Jack had written that on his very first day of class with Mr. Pitchiner, back when he’d thought he was nothing more than a stuck-up, weird looking, shitty teacher who was far too strict for his own good. He grinned at the graffiti briefly, and then his forehead thumped into the bench and his fingers dug into the painted wood.

The hand around his cock was adept, and he was playing Jack like he’d been doing it longer than Jack had.

‘Good?’ Mr. Pitchiner said, as he reached over for the lubricant.

‘Not really one for foreplay, huh?’

‘Foreplay was imagining sliding my fingers into you earlier today, during the exam. If you insist on looking at me with those eyes, then I’m not sure what you expect, really. And what were you imagining? Tell me.’

Jack scraped his teeth against the bench when Mr. Pitchiner twisted his hand over the head of Jack’s cock. He wasn’t particularly gentle about it, but Jack didn’t want gentle. He’d had a long time to think about what he wanted from Mr. Pitchiner, and it was never, ever gentle.

Then he realised that he’d just scraped his teeth against the _science bench,_ and he groaned. He was screwed. He was going to hurt walking home, he just knew it. Maybe he could scam a lift back. Maybe he could pull the, ‘as you’ve just fucked me against the science bench, I was wondering...’ card. Maybe later he could pull the, ‘let me thank you for driving me home, Sir,’ card.

Jack’s mind swam with the possibilities, and then all thoughts drifted out of his head when he heard the lid come off the lubricant.

‘Well I got past thinking about your fingers like, this morning. Actually I was thinking about your cock sliding into me. Really? You only got as far as fingers? Are you-’

Jack couldn’t finish his sentence. Mr. Pitchiner’s index finger, slick with lube, slid between his ass cheeks and traced a cool, wet stripe that made Jack whine against the table. He shifted his legs, could have sworn that he didn’t _blush_ when Mr. Pitchiner rumbled a thick sound of approval at him. He’d spent all semester trying to piss him off, and now they were in this situation, a single sound of approval was sending him mindless.

‘Do you do this yourself?’ Mr. Pitchiner said, leaning over him and pushing the tip of his finger inside. Jack laughed breathlessly.

‘I fucking imagine it’s you when I do it, Sir.’

Mr. Pitchiner smiled against the side of his face and slid his index finger home, up to the last knuckle. His fingers were _definitely_ longer than Jack’s, definitely longer. Jack made a highly undignified sound and then pushed his head sideways into Mr. Pitchiner’s. It was supposed to be affectionate, but his skull bumped up hard against Mr. Pitchiner’s cheekbone, and instead it just _hurt._

‘If you keep on like this, you’re going to have a concussion by the time I actually get to fuck you. So tell me, how do I compare to your own fingers?’

Mr. Pitchiner crooked his index finger inside of Jack and Jack didn’t whimper, he _didn’t_ whimper, he didn’t fucking whimper.

_I’m so screwed. This was the best idea I’ve ever fucking had._

‘That’s not an answer,’ Mr. Pitchiner drawled, and Jack felt a laugh bubbling up inside of his chest when he felt the blunt pressure of Mr. Pitchiner’s index finger at his entrance. He bit his bottom lip, rested his head on the bench.

‘I do hope I haven’t reduced you to a mute state already, that would be disappointing.’

Jack swore as Mr. Pitchiner slid his middle finger in. There was a stretch now, and Mr. Pitchiner didn’t seem to care, moving his hand forwards relentlessly, not stopping until he could grind the back of his hand against Jack’s ass, reminding him how deep he was. Jack was suddenly, ridiculously glad he’d fucked himself open the night before, because otherwise that would’ve had more of a sting to it. As it was, Jack felt split open, and he moved his hips, restless. He wanted more.

The hand on his cock slowed, and then Mr. Pitchiner’s thumb came up and rubbed at his slit and Jack lifted his head and almost slammed it back on the bench, catching himself just in time.

‘For someone who probably jerks off five times a day, you’re surprisingly sensitive,’ Mr. Pitchiner said, voice rich, pleased. Jack didn’t know whether to move his hips forwards or backwards. He didn’t know what to do. He was close, he was _close_ and Mr. Pitchiner’s fingers weren’t even moving inside of him, they were just resting, a promise that Jack was probably going to be pretty sore after all. He was going to scam that lift home, damn it.

‘I’m close,’ Jack gasped, and Mr. Pitchiner chuckled.

‘I know. You can come. It won’t be the first time today. God bless the refractory period of young men.’

‘You fucking pervert,’ Jack said, and then his voice broke when Mr. Pitchiner’s fingers started moving inside of him. ‘God bless the fucking perverts,’ Jack managed.

Mr. Pitchiner laughed, he sounded delighted. And Jack wanted to say something cocky, but the hand moving on him had sped up, the fingers were pushing hard back into him, and he was reduced to a well of heat and sparks. His mind turned into a mess of sentence fragments, and then nothing more than words; _more, fuck, jesus, Sir, please._ He came hard, clenching around Mr. Pitchiner’s fingers, smelling chemicals and school and that sharp aftershave that was so distinctively Mr. Pitchiner it made his head spin.

Mr. Pitchiner kept moving inside of him, stretched out his entrance and then added a third finger, not caring that Jack was tighter, or perhaps enjoying it. Jack didn’t even know anymore. His fantasy had ended at coming once. He was going to replay the words ‘god bless the refractory period of young men,’ the next time he got himself off. And every time thereafter. Maybe forever. Maybe he’d be doing it when he was forty and not anywhere near young man status.

‘You’ve broken me,’ Jack gasped, and Mr. Pitchiner laughed again. He sounded far happier now than he ever did in class.

‘I haven’t even _begun_ to break you, Mr. Frost,’ Mr. Pitchiner said, and at the formal use of his name, Jack groaned.

‘I hate you a little bit,’ Jack managed, and Mr. Pitchiner bit the back of Jack’s neck, sinking his teeth in. He licked the skin as he withdrew, and even though Jack hadn’t really bothered to fantasise about it, hadn’t really bothered to think that through, he suddenly wanted Mr. Pitchiner’s tongue in his mouth. Wanted it more than he thought was possible.

‘The feeling is more than mutual. Every bench in this room has your graffiti on it.’

‘You’re...welcome,’ Jack managed, and then thumped the bench with his hands when Mr. Pitchiner stretched him with all three fingers. ‘Take it _easy,’_ Jack hissed.

‘Do you want to take my cock or not?’ Mr. Pitchiner said, and Jack shivered. His spent cock twitched.

_Really, really, really screwed._

‘Want,’ Jack managed. ‘That would be great. Thanks. Can I put an order in for it?’

‘I think my favourite part of this will be when you can’t actually _talk_ anymore,’ Mr. Pitchiner said, thrusting his fingers deep and making a sound of amusement when Jack squeaked again. He really had to stop making that sound.

‘The first day in class, I believe you told me to go fuck myself,’ Mr. Pitchiner said, striking up a smooth, easier rhythm with his fingers that made Jack claw at the bench. ‘I think I knew then, actually, what I wanted to do with you.’

‘Yeah?’ Jack rasped. ‘Took me a little longer, because you’re an asshole.’

‘How much longer?’ Mr. Pitchiner said, curious.

‘Like...’ Jack thought about it and flushed. ‘Like two days after that.’

He laughed, he couldn’t help it. He thought it’d been longer, but it hadn’t. After two days he’d watched Mr. Pitchiner pick up a small test tube and twirl it in his fingers and had simply thought; _He has nice fingers though, for an unrelenting dick._

His cock had a mind of its own, basically.

‘You didn’t even let me take my hoodie off, asshole,’ Jack muttered, and then realised that actually, there was a lot more clothing on than off. Every time Mr. Pitchiner pushed his chest against Jack’s back, it was mostly just lab-coat.

Mr. Pitchiner removed his hand where it had been resting still against Jack’s crotch, and then clasped Jack’s hip with strong fingers, yanking him backwards. Jack cried out, felt impaled, and then as his head slowly cleared he wondered why he wasn’t being admonished for the noise. Weren’t they worried about the noise?

‘Why aren’t you telling me to be quiet? You want to get fired?’

‘Drinks at the bar tonight, all the teachers are long gone. Believe me when I say they can’t wait to get away from you little shits every night, but on drinks night they get away even _faster._ I locked the gate to the science rooms. It’s just you and I. The janitors won’t get here for an hour. Actually, Mr. Frost, you can be as loud as you want.’

‘Oh, fuck, you thought this through,’ Jack said, and rolled his forehead on the table. ‘You’re as bad as I am.’

Mr. Pitchiner dug into his lab coat again and brought out a condom, placing it directly in Jack’s line of sight.

‘Worse, I like to think,’ Mr. Pitchiner said, a smile in his voice. He withdrew his fingers and Jack felt bereft, empty, he shifted his hips backwards. Mr. Pitchiner ruffled Jack’s hair with his other hand, fingers sticky with Jack’s come, and Jack growled out a protest. But then Mr. Pitchiner reached between his own legs, undid the fly on his own jeans and Jack’s heart-rate skyrocketed. It was happening, it was actually fucking happening, and there was no part of his mind that thought up protests or disagreements or anything like ‘be rational, come on.’ There was just hope and lust and his cock making a valiant effort to rise to full hardness again.

‘You see, Jack,’ Mr. Pitchiner said, reaching over and picking up the condom packet, tearing it open easily. ‘Tomorrow, when you come into class, aching and oh, probably not the biggest fan of these hard benches against your tender, white ass...I’m going to be sitting up in my comfortable chair, looking at you, knowing that I had you bent over this bench, knowing that it wouldn’t be hard to do this again. And again. Every time you make one of your stupid jokes, every time you think you’re being _witty_ when you interrupt my class...’

Mr. Pitchiner reached over and picked up the lubricant and Jack’s eyes snapped open when he heard the sound of Mr. Pitchiner slicking himself up. That shouldn’t have been as hot as it was. He saw the periodic chart again, the graffiti, and clutched at the bench. Everything Mr. Pitchiner was saying had the odd effect of both pissing him off, and keeping him hard.

Mr. Pitchiner stepped closer and kicked Jack’s legs further apart with one of his expensive shoes. He ran slick fingers up the back of Jack’s thigh, and then dug them into an ass cheek, oddly possessive.

‘Every time I interrupt your class...?’ Jack prompted, breathless.

He exhaled hard when Mr. Pitchiner spread Jack’s ass and then positioned himself.

_Oh my fucking god, he’s going to kill me. I don’t have any dildos this big!_ Jack was absurdly grateful that Mr. Pitchiner had stretched him out so much. Even more grateful that he appreciated the sting and stretch himself, because he was pretty sure that was going to be a part of it.

‘Every time you break _another_ beaker, or toast marshmallows at the Bunsen burner, or call me _Snape,_ or pretend you’ve dropped another pencil so that you can bend over and show me your ass, I’m going to think about _this.’_

Jack’s breath hitched even before Mr. Pitchiner pushed forward, and then he forgot how to breathe. Mr. Pitchiner was big. _Fuck._ Jack whined as one hand grasped Jack’s hip to pull him backwards and the other snuck under his shirt and rubbed at his lower back, warm and reassuring.

He expected Mr. Pitchiner to check, expected him to pause, expected a hesitation that he never bothered fantasising about, because when he imagined this, Mr. Pitchiner simply sunk into him. But he’d thought the real teacher would never do that, and he whimpered, realised he was wrong, couldn’t tell if he was grateful for that yet. Mr. Pitchiner wasn’t stopping, though he’d slowed down.

‘You’re tight,’ he hissed, and sank deeper. Jack managed a weak laugh.

‘You’re just the size of a porn-star. Everyone’s probably tight to you. There’s probably exhaust pipes on cars that are tight to you. There’s probably slides in parks that are-’

‘Oh, _shut up._ That’s not flattering. _’_

Jack scrabbled at the table as he felt Mr. Pitchiner go deeper than anything else ever had. Fingers, toys, _anything._ He gasped, hoarse, and the hand at his back stroked up between his shoulder blades, then stroked down over his side.

‘Tell me when to stop,’ Mr. Pitchiner said, voice thick, aroused.

‘I don’t want you to stop,’ Jack gasped, crying out when a dull, throbbing ache welled inside of him.

‘Tell me,’ Mr. Pitchiner said again, but there was a darkness to his voice now, something that said that he didn’t want to.

Jack bit his bottom lip and refused to say anything. He didn’t know why he felt like he had to prove himself, but he was stubborn as hell and he wasn’t going to stop now. But the ache became a flare of pain and he opened his mouth to protest, started to shape his lips around the word _stop,_ and then felt Mr. Pitchiner’s hips settle against his hips and cried out, broken. He wanted to swear, wanted to say something, but he had nothing except reaching for oxygen and his own hand gripping himself, stroking clumsily to smooth the ache away.

‘Mr. Frost, it turns out that you can take cock like a champion. Well done. Do they give dux awards in this at the end of the year? I can’t remember. Maybe I’ll make a note on your report card.’

Jack whimpered, he didn’t have anything to say. When Mr. Pitchiner’s cock twitched inside of him, he thought he was going to die.

‘Ah, can’t speak?’ Mr. Pitchiner said, sounding entirely too pleased with himself. ‘Not to trot out an old cliché, but can you feel it in your throat?’

‘I was hoping we could do that later,’ Jack said, and Mr. Pitchiner’s hand stumbled to a halt where it had been stroking his back.

‘Jesus Christ,’ Mr. Pitchiner said, voice rough.

‘I can though,’ Jack said, voice far higher than usual. ‘Feel it in my throat. It’s a good cliché. S’how it feels.’

Mr. Pitchiner withdrew slowly, almost all the way out, and then thrust back in with a firm movement that had Jack shouting. He clawed at the bench and his fingernails were hurting and he couldn’t think why, and then the hand that had been soothing his back withdrew and stilled his fingers, slid through them and clasped his hand.

‘Hold on tight, Mr. Frost,’ Mr. Pitchiner said, and Jack ached, _wanted_ , his hand hadn’t stopped moving on himself. He didn’t think he had long, he’d never experienced anything like this. He wondered if he could take Mr. Pitchiner with him to his other classes. He could do with a memory like this in calculus. Jack’s hand clenched around Mr. Pitchiner’s, he shuddered into the bench.

Mr. Pitchiner picked up a fast, demanding rhythm that yanked noises from Jack with every downstroke, forced air out of lungs. It wasn’t special treatment, Jack got the impression that he was being fucked the way Mr. Pitchiner fucked everyone. He was glad for it, but it left him dazed and overwhelmed and sore and hard and hungry. He wanted more, he wanted him to slow down, wanted him to speed up, was being consumed by it.

He brushed his own thumb against the head of his cock and whimpered. Close already, it never usually happened this quickly, but then – he supposed – he’d never been in this situation before.

‘Shit,’ Jack managed, and it was the most eloquent thing he had on offer. He was surprised he could speak.

Mr. Pitchiner didn’t let up, but his rhythm became unstable, rougher. Jack squeezed his eyes shut and moved his hand faster, sensation swelling through him and becoming a line of tension all the way from the base of his spine up to his head. It was too much. He smeared wetness against the bench and nearly laughed at the fact that this had brought him to _tears_ , but couldn’t manage it, he needed his lungs for breathing.

Mr. Pitchiner’s rhythm faltered, and then he thrust deep, finding new millimetres inside of Jack that Jack hadn’t known were there. Jack shrieked, couldn’t even feel embarrassed. He started to come and his mind went blank when he realised that Mr. Pitchiner was doing the same, pressed deep and moaning over his back.

He had to remove his hand from himself immediately at the end, he was too sensitive. And when Mr. Pitchiner withdrew, Jack groaned long, because oh god he needed a painkiller, or a muscle relaxant, or a joint. _Something._

He started to slide off the bench and Mr. Pitchiner laughed and caught him, wrapping a strong arm around his middle and pressing his back into his torso, burying his lips in Jack’s hair. A moment later he chuckled.

‘You’ll need to wash your hair, it smells like come.’

‘Who’s fucking fault is that, you fucking pervert?’ Jack managed, and then opened his eyes, sleepily. ‘Congratulations I can’t stand.’

‘You can,’ Mr. Pitchiner said, and eventually he was right. Jack managed to get his legs underneath himself properly. He pulled his boxers and pants up, realised he was still wearing his shoes, realised he needed a really long shower. And a joint. And maybe some painkillers.

‘You’re huge,’ Jack mumbled.

‘You’ll get used to it,’ Mr. Pitchiner said with a level of promise that made Jack lean against the bench briefly.

‘Seriously?’ Jack said.

‘That you’ll get used to it? Maybe not. I’d somewhat prefer it if you didn’t get entirely used to it. Oh, is that not what you meant?’

Jack glared at him as Mr. Pitchiner took off the condom, tied a knot in it, and then walked off to his own office which attached to his classroom. A moment later he returned, jeans buttoned up, not a hair out of place. He used far too much product for that stupid hairstyle. His lab coat was gone, probably hanging up on a hook or over a chair. He had his car keys hanging off his finger.

‘Lift home?’

Jack took a deep, shaky breath and nodded, then walked over to get his backpack. He needed a shower, a joint, a painkiller, and booze. A lot of booze. He turned around and Mr. Pitchiner had snuck up behind him. He was about to make a reference to how that was something very like what _Snape_ would do, when a hand tangled in his hair and lips pressed against his.

Mr. Pitchiner slid his tongue into Jack’s mouth with an ease that made Jack feel like they’d been kissing every day for months. Jack slicked his tongue up against Mr. Pitchiner’s, wrapped around it, but didn’t get a chance to explore his teacher’s mouth. Mr. Pitchiner was too adept, too good, and Jack liked it. Liked the feel of Mr. Pitchiner’s tongue against the roof of his mouth, biting the tip of his tongue between his teeth.

‘Come on,’ Mr. Pitchiner said, as he withdrew, licking Jack’s bottom lip. ‘Let’s talk about what else you’ve fantasised about.’

‘Let’s get me a painkiller first,’ Jack said, voice rough, and Mr. Pitchiner paused and trailed a thumb across his jaw.

‘I did tell you to stop. But you had to go and-’

‘I’m not complaining,’ Jack said. ‘Much. I’m only complaining a little.’

‘Well, as that’s a pleasant change from you filling my life with your incessant whining and complaint and insult, I will take it. If fucking you reduces you to this, let’s tie you up to my own desk so I can fuck you whenever you start whining about osmosis again.’

Jack blinked at the image.

‘Tie me up?’ he said, and then grinned. ‘Hey, about those fantasies of mine...’

‘Jesus,’ Mr. Pitchiner muttered, pulling Jack towards the door. ‘You’re going to get me fired.’

‘And I’m going to fail fucking science. Thanks. Thanks a ton. Because what _else_ am I gonna think about in class now?’

‘I have to admit, that was almost worth the cost of the microscope,’ Mr. Pitchiner said lightly, as he locked the door behind him, and Jack scowled.

‘What the fuck? _Almost?_ What the fuck is that?’

Mr. Pitchiner winked at him and Jack’s mouth dropped open, outraged.

_Really fucking screwed, alright._


End file.
